


Vanity in the Third Degree

by burlesquecomposer



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Angels, Angst, Big Bang Challenge, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Sexual Content, Stockholm Syndrome, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 19:36:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burlesquecomposer/pseuds/burlesquecomposer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shizuo is a hopeless angel whose only hope lies in the palm of Izaya’s hand. However, he's expected to dance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Paint a sky around the stars

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for a big bang challenge, but the fic itself turned out to pan out longer than I'd intended, and I didn't finish on time.
> 
> Be forewarned: this fic has tugged, pulled, ripped out and stomped on heart strings. But I do it because I love them and this fandom ♥

_Whoever had said that Shizuo could not feel pain was terribly wrong._

 _A screech that curdles his own blood tears like a knife to the skull, violently protesting against his eardrums until the blond realizes that the tremendous, agonizing sound has come from his own rasping throat. His mind is screaming for relief, but he knows voice alone would do no good._

 _What’s been done has been done, and there’s no going back._

 

{ s e v e n y e a r s e a r l i e r. }

 

Midnight. A warm chill rises from the sidewalk and descends in the form of an evening mist. Stars freckle the night sky as if to speak for droplets of dew on newly frosted glass, as if to watch with another; overhead, while pale moonlight trickles down from a familiar, graceful sliver, witching-hour indigo grows deeper and deeper the longer he stares, as if the indigo could infect his own mahogany irises like the permanence of ink or paint.

 _Though Kasuka always did like watercolors more, he thinks._

In no time at all, Shizuo finds himself running once more. The concrete lifting away beneath his feet as he starts to gain momentum and hover barely, the sweat cooling on his neck and temples, the rush of the wind in his hair— he can’t get enough. The muscles in his wings are beginning to tighten up, tensing and arching for the potential of flight. The burning sensation in his lungs and calves is wholly tuned out, and Shizuo takes the next tall curb as an opportunity to leap off the ground. It’s an exhilarating feeling, just those few moments of freedom and majesty, because there is only one problem.

Shizuo cannot fly.

Kasuka is waiting patiently in the den when the blond staggers in, the heavy force of exhaustion beginning to finally take its toll on his slumped shoulders. Without a word the shorter teen stands, wings folded neatly at his back, and slips an arm under Shizuo’s. The blond tries not to lean on his brother with the worry that he might somehow crush him beneath his weight, but soon enough he’s close to falling asleep on his feet as they approach his bedroom. This is a normal ritual between the two of them: Shizuo’s nightly runs, and the many hours Kasuka would stay up, reading and waiting for him to come home. If Shizuo was ever awake enough to notice small details, he might have been able to pick up the front cover of those books — titles different, every night, because the brunette has gone through the entire Heiwajima family library. Twice.

Once, on one of these runs, Shizuo plucked a large paperback from the shelf of a bookstore. Kasuka had smiled a little at the gift, glancing up in reassurance even though it’s one they already own, and placed it far away from the first copy so Shizuo wouldn’t know of his mistake.

Kasuka knows how sensitive Shizuo has become.

While Shizuo may possess a strength unrivaled by most other angels, his emotional state is like that of a rose petal — fragile, soft, and easily torn despite its sweetness. Kasuka is unable to defend Shizuo from the teasing and snide comments simply because the blond does not want him to. And after a time Kasuka realizes that it’s a sort of contradicting need for pity. Shizuo’s desire for acceptance stems from his own inability to cope with the reality of his strange sensibility of being.

There is little that Kasuka can do for him except to calm his anger; Shizuo must learn to fly on his own.


	2. Watch the clouds rolling in

_his spasming fingernails peel the skin of the hardwood counter like mere orange rinds curling to give off their sweet essence_

 

* * *

 

The very first time Shizuo catches a glimpse of the raven is quite literally face to face.

He’s walking with Shinra on the outer school grounds, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, while he vaguely listens to the boy chatter on and on about his quote-unquote “girlfriend,” whom Shizuo still hasn’t had a chance to meet. The air still rings fresh with the last bell of the day, and Shizuo lets free a sigh of relief, as if the mere concept of school has been so stifling he can hardly breathe.

“-and so, as I was… Shizuo, are you even listening to me?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah.”

“ _‘Oh. Yeah,’_ ” he scoffs, twisting his words with sarcasm and kicking the dirt with his shoes. His wings are small, delicate, and tinted with the faint color of a quiet storm. “Repeat what I just said.”

“You sounded like a teacher just now.”

“Nope, that’s not what I said, Shizuo.”

“Don’t make me punch your face in.”

“Be careful, Shizuo! Someone might hear you…” Shinra waggles a finger next to his face, and Shizuo feels the vein in his temple already on the verge of popping.

“Well? What did you say?” Shizuo manages to get out through grit teeth.

“I said, you know that Orihara kid? Well– yesterday, he—”

“Nope.”

“…Huh?”

Shizuo shrugs his shoulders. “Don’t know ‘im.”

Shinra’s grey framed eyes are wide when Shizuo glances over through his peripherals. They turn back to the street before them. “Really?”

“And I don’t want to.”

“Aw, come on, Shizuo! It’d be good for you to make some new friends, maybe even—”

A rush of wind, and suddenly a pair of striking red eyes materializes before his own. The blond can barely take in the outstretched horizon of the raven’s thin, light pinions before the figure makes a sharp turn, grazing Shizuo’s shoulder, and launches back up into the air with an arch of his back. Shizuo is almost in awe until his eyes meet ruby red, and “meet” turns to “clash” as his own chocolate orbs narrow— he’s _mocking_ him.

The raven lands with another low swoop, wings thrusting against the breeze and dropping him gently to the middle of the vacant street. Lean legs bending to absorb the shock of gravity, he looks up again and grins crookedly.

“Ah, speak of the devil— Shizuo, this is Orihara Izaya.”

“Tch,” the blond spits. “‘New friends’ my ass.”

Izaya’s wings retract to fold in at his back. “So hostile! What kind of angel are you?”

Shizuo’s head snaps in his direction and he growls in less-than-tepid response. Nearby projectiles have already been taken into account, a habit developed from early lifestyle. Izaya is mocking, taunting, no– _ridiculing_ him, as if he’s nothing more than a maggot, the lowest of the low— when Shizuo can only try to convince himself that it’s the other way around.

“Now now,” Shinra coaxes in attempt to ease tension as he steps between them, “We don’t want any trouble. Do we, Shizuo?”

Anger is growing to a rolling boil inside the blond, fingers and biceps flexing dangerously.

“Oh my! Trouble? I _have_ to see this~” he whistles.

Reacting to just a minuscule movement from Shizuo, Izaya hurls himself into the air again, making an arc near the roof of the building behind them. Shizuo’s hand is already wrapped around a Yield sign, bending and tearing it soundly from the ground, and with one pitch he flings the metal pole like a javelin. It narrowly misses the raven, who perches himself on the rooftop’s edge and laughs, flaunting a skill the blond lacks.

“What’s this?” he calls down, sadistic sanguine twinkling with newfound mirth while his voice rings a high note of derision. “Oh~ Shizu-chan can’t fly, can he?”

And suddenly, this time, it is the nickname that drives an iron chisel into his heart each time it’s spoken.


	3. Catch the muted flashes

_his train of thought had taken to the tracks with "I can take this" and now ends at a station called "please kill me"_

* * *

Their graduation is a descendent into some sort of strange version of "adulthood." The ceremony: an over-celebrated, ostentatious explosion that gives Shizuo a headache, making him turn away and forcing him to watch the gaping Shinra sitting beside him. As the last of the fireworks are cast into the darkening sunset sky, Shizuo watches the multicolored sparks fade and die. His wings flinch.

He scans the crowd after the ceremony, other graduates now joining their parents, and sees Shinra practically fly into his girlfriend's arms. Shizuo had first been introduced to Celty briefly in their third year. It had been no surprise to find out Shinra's interest of affection wasn't exactly what one might call "normal," but what had stunned him first and foremost was not her mysterious, vague form, or the unusual craft of her wings — a dark, shadowy substance, material yet shapeless like how ink billows and curls in water — but the aura with which she regarded him. For what seemed like the first time in his life, Shizuo was not questioned for his existence.

It was, in an odd way, comforting.

A smile creeps onto Shizuo's lips as Shinra deliberately ignores his strange father, whose face he has still not seen and does not particularly want to see. Instead, his eyes sweep over the sea of people, glancing up at the few groups who have launched themselves into the dimming sky and flown home. Shizuo has still not found his parents and brother.

He doesn't want himself to think he's beginning to tolerate the damn insect, or that his gradually growing desire to know more about Izaya's personal life is in any way diminishing his hatred for him, but the curiosity is ravenously eating him away until he finally finds the short, thin figure off to the edge of the flock.

_He is alone._

_Watching the empty, starless sky._

"Nii-san."

The hand on his shoulder is something he has long grown used to, but nevertheless it still startles him. Shizuo finds normality in the matte mocha eyes of his brother and the congratulatory gazes of his parents. The tight hugs the two of them give, pressing his defunct wings into his back, are an all-too-constant reminder of his personal malfunction. He tries his best to smile for them, but his heart is heavy on the walk home.

It is years until Shizuo sees Izaya again.


	4. Hear the roars of thunder

_the worst part is that he shouldn't, won't, can't turn around_

* * *

Shizuo finds out quickly that desk jobs do not suit him;  _especially_  when dangerous tools like staplers, chairs, and CPUs are just within an arm's reach.

He gets the pink slip only twice. The other five come straight from his boss, verbally and strung with curses and spit. Within Shizuo's necessarily arbitrary job-hopping, he has managed to shatter nine desk objects, break five chairs, throw  _three_  chairs at an annoying coworker, chuck a water cooler that broke through the wall, punch a fist through two screen monitors, and toss a whole computer, parts and all, out of the fifth-story window.

The blond returns home to a eviction notice.

Packing what little he owns into the old backpack he used back in high school, Shizuo sets out before the twenty-four hours of his notice are up. The backpack has character, with the kind of wear and tear symbolic of a former life that has not entirely left him. He smiles as he checks one of the smaller front pockets and happens upon a nearly empty roll of gauze that Shinra had forced upon him after school one day.

In his short moment of reminiscence, he can still feel the bandages around his coverts when a fallen gang went after his wings. He'd been cut up quite badly, but when Shinra pointed out the blood in his feathers, the blond was genuinely surprised simply because he hadn't felt a thing. His wings were numb and insubstantial yet still remained a dead weight, like a broken ankle hanging loosely in the air from a competent leg.

Shizuo hops up onto the nearest wall, a sloping and eroding composition of grey-toned stone and trails upon trails of cement holding it all together; at least, what is left of it. Letting his backpack dangle by one strap from his shoulder, he swings his legs up and down in two half pendulum arcs. Time wastes away until there is nothing better to do than find a new apartment and another job.

"Hello and welcome to Fusai's, my name is Shizuo and I'll be your–"

The blond pauses and grimaces when he looks up to see Tom pulling his mouth up into a smile, a never-quite-subtle suggestion. "Smile, Shizuo. Sometimes, it doesn't matter what you break or when you lose your temper, if you smile."

Shizuo's attempt at a smile has Tom bending over with laughter. And Shizuo would kill him for it, if it weren't for the fact that his former high school senior had helped him get this job in the first place. But since he'd only known desk jobs in his volatile career, he had to ask another favor: socialization coaching. If there was one thing that Shizuo hadn't grown accustomed to by having it beaten into him since age ten, it was being around people; not only that, but being around people and maintaining a civil appearance the blond frankly had never bothered to learn.

For a week or two and with the after hours help from Tom, Shizuo has, for the most part, learned the ropes to the prominent yet hole-in-the-wall restaurant. He's only broken two plates and secretly ruined only one of his uniforms in a fit of rage that struck him after a particularly frustrating day. Smiles come more naturally and seem to be attracting customers by his charm and uniqueness.

"Excuse me, boy."

A vein pops in Shizuo's temple, which is a sensation he hasn't felt in a long while. If there's one thing you're not exactly supposed to call a waiter, out of pure common courtesy in public, it's "boy." Nevertheless, Tom told him never to argue with a customer, so Shizuo turns around, folding the circular tray under his arm, and makes his way to one of his tables.

"Yes, sir?" he says, wanting to let it out through gritted teeth.

"I ordered this steak rare." Shizuo takes the plate to inspect the inside of the meat.

"Sir, uh… forgive me, but, this  _is_  rare–"

"I know what rare looks like, now take it back and make me another!"

"Calm down, dear," his wife cajoles from across the table. Clearly, however, she has no affect on him. Shizuo glances back at the husband, then beside where he sits, where a small girl of about seven is sitting rather uncomfortably. He fondly remembers taking her order when she piped up, "What do you recommend?" as if she was trying to sound like an adult. When she ordered the grilled cheese, Shizuo had given her a high five.

"Sir, I must make you aware that we do have a surcharge for any order that needs to be remade–"

"I ordered a rare steak, and I'll pay what it says on the menu."

"I-Is it really that important?" Shizuo almost blurts out, instantly regretting it. He's stepped over the line, bit off more than he could possibly chew, and should have quit while he was ahead — if he'd ever  _been_  ahead in the first place.

The man rockets from his chair. "Well I never! How  _dare_  you" - _snap-_ "speak to me that way,  _boy!" -snap-_  "Never in my life have I been treated so rudely"  _-snap-_  "been so humiliated in all my life–"

The table disappears.

A high-pitched wail clears the crimson haze from his eyes.

The restaurant is enveloped in hushed whispers as the wife rushes to the girl's aid. Her shaking body, still loud with cries, lies just slightly beneath the splintered table. Other restaurant employees have rushed out of the kitchen to see the commotion. Hesitantly, with a slow and careful grace despite the way his heart is pounding against his ribcage like a jackhammer, he lowers himself on one knee and reaches out a hand; the other rises to his parted lips.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers under his breath. It's enough for the woman to hear, however, and she strikes his hand away with the aggression of a protective mother.

_"Don't touch my child!"_

Out of the corner of his eye, Shizuo sees his boss hanging his head in disappointment and shame. The blond understands, and gets to his feet while others tend to the cleanup. Shizuo can't bring himself to smile; he knows it won't get him out of this one. As he goes, Tom locks eyes with him, sorrow painting his features and drooping his wings, before averting his gaze to the carpeted floor.

Shizuo wonders if it's not the type of job that seems to be the problem, but rather his inability to function in common society without losing all control and hurting a perfectly innocent angel. He knows he deserved to be thrown out into the pouring rain tonight.


	5. Stand and wait for the humble strike

_it's those same poisonous fingers that bandage the crisp wounds with a tone of washing-your-back courtesy, as if in justified atonement._

* * *

"Don't do it."

"Fuck," he whispers under his breath. Shizuo can hear Shinra like he's right behind him, but there is no useless grip on his sleeve to hold him back. Now, as he stands unsteadily on the tip of the tower's needle, the persistent voice of reason and a long-repressed conscience is beginning to make him rethink his decision. His legs are whelmed with the vague tremor of time's unbalance.

How long has he been up here?

Shizuo wants to check his watch, but he fears that any movement, any disruption in his equilibrium, might end up making the decision for him. It's like he's a tiny chick, the defective, the smallest of the hatch; tempting fate at the edge of the nest with the unsettling terror that he is simply not yet ready, only for his mother to inch forward from behind and give him the nudge he needs.

Fuck, will he  _ever_  be ready?

The blond tries flapping his wings. They raise like rusted hinges with spells of enfeeblement. The feathers spread out in a fan, but they are easily affected by the oncoming wind, and he starts to stagger. Breathe, breathe, he tells himself, though it does little to quell his rising dread.

_Like a bandaid. Just rip it off._

But he could die.

_Shizuo, afraid of dying? There are a number of people who might laugh at that notion._

In the back of his mind he sees a thin-lipped grin splitting a familiar face.

_Fucking insect. Fucking_ _parasite_ _._

Shizuo leans forward.

There is the pause he's been told to expect. That short moment when time seems eternally frozen, his heart swells and stops, and everything surrounding disappears: just him, the air, and the sky. One. It may seem crazy, but right before gravity is supposed to cling to him, pull him down, he feels normal– no, _more_  than normal–  _alive, immortal,_ _uncaged_ _._ But the pause has gone on for too long, Shizuo realizes, now starting to feel the slight pressure that has been placed at his abdomen and behind the hinges of his knees. It's only when he opens his eyes that he is aware they were closed to begin with.

A dark figure appears to be hovering before him until it leisurely beats its crepuscular wings to raise itself on the wind. For once, the word 'envy' does not even dare to cross his mind at the sight of an ability surely out of reach. The pressure hardens, still gentle, pushing Shizuo up from his angle and into a safer stance on the needle.

_What were you about to do?_

Shizuo has never spoken to her before. Now, as her soundless words seem to trickle into his own subconscious, all his lips are able to do is form her name.

"Celty."

 _I'm sorry, you must not be used to this. How I talk,_ she tells him almost awkwardly.

"I…think I can handle it."

The swirls from her open neck seem to nod.  _So? What did I just stop? An accident, or a stupid idea?_

"Celty–" he sighs.

The smoke twitches in the cool air.  _The latter. You're lucky I was here._

Shizuo wants to believe he would have been able to do it. That he wouldn't need to continue to depend on other angels, that he might just once get a taste of what everyone else deemed as commonplace, a child's rite of passage alongside reading and basic math. Shizuo could have been able to save Kasuka had he possibly failed his first attempt for flight when they were young, or might have joined Skyball instead of cross country in high school.

So much, he's missed.

Celty's cool hand brushes his face, grounding him back to reality.

_It's not your time to die yet._

Shizuo does not ask why it is her job to know whose time was whose. To die.

But the revelation strikes him like the pavement inevitably would have. His voice is a mere sibilation caught by the wind, heard only by the black creature before him.

"I would have died?"


	6. Chapter 6

"I think I know exactly why they didn't put me on the mailing list."

"Why?"

Shinra starts to clean his glasses while Celty remains fickle and pedantic about every fraction of an inch of the doctor's suit. His tie has already been tied, retied, and switched out six times. She uses a slither of smoke to brush too-long bangs away from his boyish face.

"Because they don't want me there, that's why," Shizuo says to the mirror with a slight growling inflection. He's been dressed for over half an hour and sits on Shinra's couch, one leg hooked over the other. Glancing into the glass frame from his angle is the only way he can see Shinra without having to crane his neck; it's rather lazy, but Shizuo likes to think more in terms of being 'practical.' "It's not like they'd just… forget."

"Well I thought that would be the first thing to pop into your mind."

"Shinra…" he snarls.

"Hey, you said it, not me. Could you please put on a tie? You look like a teenager."

Shizuo is dressed in the minimum of black slacks and a dress shirt, but the first four buttons are undone and his sleeves are haphazardly rolled up. At the suggestion of Tom, with whom he still keeps contact, a pair of blue designer sunglasses adorn the bridge of his nose over satin brown eyes. He feels his pocket for a comforting box of cigarettes.

"So the flea will have something to grab onto when he comes after me? No chance. Are you done yet?"

"What time is it?"

"Seven thirty."

"Shit!" The curse earns a whack from Celty. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"You seemed pretty damn occupied, I didn't want to disturb you," Shizuo says almost smugly. Shinra runs his hands over the front of his suit, then decides he wants the blazer opened. Celty gives him a quick 'kiss', which more or less involves brief necking and a shadowy caress.

"It  _starts_  at seven thirty," Shinra exclaims hastily as they leave. "We're going to be late!"

"Why do you even care if we're a little late?"

"Because of you, we have to walk, so we're not going to be just a  _little_  late—"

"If I'm such a fucking burden to you, go on!" The outburst makes Shinra stop in his tracks, dress shoes sounding against the concrete. "Fly your way there, I'll walk. S'not like I'm not used to it."

Shinra's grey eyes turn down, glancing at the blond's fists tightly clenched, then stuffs his hands in his pockets, moving the blazer out of the way in the process. "I didn't mean it like that, Shizuo… Shizuo, I'm sorry. You're right, it's a stupid, cheap party and I'll bet no one's going to show up anyway. Let's just keep walking, c'mon."

"No, you go ahead–"

"Shizuo–"

"I said go."

Shinra can't find any words to apologize further as an expression of how horribly he regrets what he's said. He gives Shizuo his only visible desolation, one last stare swimming with remorse, before jetting off into the seven-thirty-five sky. It is only when he can no longer make out the doctor's gossamer figure against a moonless curtain that his fists unclench.

Heat pulses like the heart of a kindling fire as the end of a cigarette begins to touch off. A wispy trail of smoke draws its way down in spiral staircases when his hand falls at his side, white and orange resting torpidly between two fingers. At last, with no comparison, Shizuo feels at peace.


	7. Chapter 7

Though the city seems more lively at night, it is also more serene, and a strange feeling comes over the blond as he walks, knowing that what he has now is ephemeral, pure but temporary. As the sun will rise, the curtain will drop, and little will have changed – yet the last mile and a half gives him a view no angel has seen from the air.

He sees the uncleanliness of the streets. A coat of grime seems to veneer every surface, like a gritty varnish; invisible, however darkening. While he passes over sidewalk after sidewalk, he wonders if he's the one who caused those cracks in the cement. Why has he never been in this part of town? It can't be this filthy everywhere else, or God knows there would already be activists sweeping across the skies in protest.

Shizuo snuffs out his cigarette, reluctant to contribute to the pollution of this place.

It's not the way he usually takes; back then, it was Kasuka or Shinra who led the way, and Shizuo, lost in his own thoughts, was not one for attentiveness. Now, he longs to find a familiar landmark. All he needs is a vantage point.

_Fuck it._

Shizuo breaks into a run, easily jumping to fifteen in four seconds due to strong, exercised legs. He has no purpose, no goal, no direction, but freedom. No one can tell him he's late for an event, or to get back on track, because there  _is_  no track, and he can't lose that part of him now. Not now, not when the wind is tugging back at his hair and the pavement at his feet is going soft from his momentum.

Spur of the moment, he decides to turn the corner sharply.

He slips and falls hard on his side.

The blow to his pride hurts more than the injuries – simple scrapes and bruises and a skid burn on his wrist – he's sustained from the fall. Everything he strived for in that run, all of it, gone in a mere instant like he'd never thought possible. Shizuo uses his hands to push himself to his feet and brushes the dust from his clothes. There's a scuff in his shirt, which he's not all too happy about, but as he looks up he sees a blue and purple glow coming from an area across the street. Groups of people about his age are flocking toward it.

Well. He's arrived.

Shizuo returns to a walk, crosses the street, turns into his destination, and almost knocks Shinra over.

"Ah! Shizuo, you made it."

"Yeah," he answers curtly.

"L-look, Shizuo, about earlier–"

"It's fine, don't worry about it."

Shinra sighs, then nods eagerly. "Here, come on over to the bar, have a drink with me!"

"I don't drink."

"You know the most they'll have here is 10 proof, right?" Shinra jokes then, "This may be Heaven, but sinning's for the basement–"

" _I don't drink_ ," Shizuo repeats through clenched teeth.

"You can have a soda, then. But promise me you'll let go a little. Just for tonight?"

Shizuo grimaces, placing his hands on the counter when they reach the bar. The bartender is entertaining drinkers with bottle flips and fire tricks worthy of a three-ring circus. Music is pulsing through the crowd as one of the band members on the corner stage plays what looks and sounds like an electric harp. The circular tables that litter the area unoccupied by the dance floor are empty, chair turned out or used to hang coats. Shizuo scans the place, seeing one or two familiar faces in the crowd; none of them belong to the person he's looking for.


	8. Chapter 8

Soon, the various bodies pressed against him, some he vaguely remembers and others he wonders why they're here, have him running for a breath of fresh air. He retreats to the far wall and slumps against it, tossing his drink on the way. He's only had one shot, still less than 10 proof, but it's enough to make the angel lightheaded.

Swallowing the bitter taste until it's gone, Shizuo spots an open door and, looking around to make sure no one sees him escape, slips inside. He's careful about closing the door softly behind him, despite the music that he's surprised hasn't impaled anyone's eardrums. Before him is a winding spiral staircase — the passage going up in the middle is obvious for the angels who can fly, but Shizuo is used to stairs. It's nothing new – having to take the long way.

On the way up, stamina still never failing him, he sees a small window looking out over the hall. The noise is now muted, so it's more or less tolerable, but from this height he's amazed at how many people there are. They can't  _all_  have gone to Raijin, much less in neighboring years. Shizuo shakes his head and keeps walking.

He must have climbed more than a few flights, because when he gets to the very top where there are no more stairs, it's impossible to ignore the burn in his calves and stress in his lungs, the stiff pounding of his heart threatening to break his ribs. But there's another door and no other exits, so Shizuo takes it.

His skin is struck with the cool night air, and he sucks it in, body holding still for a few moments, as the chill wraps around him. He feels safe; nevertheless, he shivers with warmblooded necessity. Shizuo is conscious of the moisture in the air sticking to the hairs on his arms, and a swing of an arm at his side turns it thick like he's swimming in it, immersed just enough to keep afloat but not enough to drown.

Shizuo steps across the rooftop, aware of the sound his shoes make when they touch the concrete squares. Spotting the faint checkered pattern, he has to wonder if he's come across a version of chess that uses human players – the Chess club members at Raijin always seemed to disappear during their meeting times. But the contrast in colors has long faded now, fraying at the edges to mimic those of the death garments of a ghost, those of a watercolor's silhouette, the way it darkens like a stain in the most inconvenient of places.

Like his wings may as well be.

Shizuo makes his way to the nearest edge of the roof. What if he jumps? He's had this conversation with himself before, and he doesn't exactly want to relive it, but the notion is in his head now and it sticks. From up here, the other angels below look like ants. He can only see the tops of their heads, a glimpse of wings here and there spotted with strobe light blue and purple and red and yellow, and from there they have no bodies. Ants.

Shizuo is the ant. Insignificant, he tells himself.

Then again, who has the right to judge the significance of a living being?

Significance is judged by usefulness. And unless Shizuo jumps right now and flies, well… he'd be useless anyway, if he merely fell, and dying wouldn't affect those people down below any more than the alcohol coursing through their system.

"Need help with that?"

At first he thinks the voice has come from Celty, the way it flows into his mind, bypassing his ears and sinking straight into his consciousness. But the sinking feeling is that of a knife, piercing fast enough to sharpen the pain but not enough to kill.

Shizuo looks for the source, and then he doesn't know how he hadn't noticed him before. Maybe wishful thinking had made him blind.

"Izaya…"

The raven is seated on the opposite edge of the rooftop, spine twisted as he faces him. He's got that smile, that same smile, the kind of smile that makes Shizuo want to take his own blade and split it further up his face. And then he chuckles in his characteristic way, one that can only search for an echo. That chuckle has been the soundtrack to Shizuo's nightmares for years, to the point that the waves have been carved into his brain and can be played back like a vinyl record, inflection for inflection. But it's so late and so dark that Shizuo can't see Izaya's eyes, and he figures it's for the best; seeing those eyes would have him seeing blood as red as those very orbs.

He can't think of any color he loathes more.

Izaya turns away again, back to the crowds below, and his body rocks and sways. Only when Shizuo steps closer does he see it's from kicking his legs back and forth. Like a child. Despite his sophisticated tastes and tendency to be perceived as a bit of a mental case, Izaya has always been childlike, always playing games – both on the board and in peoples' heads. Always laughing, always having fun at another's expense with total disregard for any sort of consequences. Most have figured he can purely buy himself out of any situation.

"What to say, what to say," Izaya says at the ground far down, shaking his head. A saccharine smile is cocked over just slightly to greet him. "'Long time no see'? Let's start with that."

"After not having seen you for several years? You're gonna have to try harder than that, flea."

"Why don't you sit down, Shizu-chan."

It is a statement — an  _order_ , even — not a question, and that's what bothers Shizuo.

"Where've you been off to?" the blond asks. He can't even begin to imagine the type of trouble Izaya could have been causing all this time. "Chasing tail? Plotting extortion? Consorting with lowlifes?"

"Jesus consorted with lowlifes."

His smile is almost sad in the way his lips twitch upward only slightly. Shizuo can feel his fingers curling even tighter into his palms, rooting stiff fists to his sides.  _As if Izaya can even compare himself to such a charitable being_. "You know what I mean."

"Why don't you sit down," Izaya says again.

"Next to you?" Shizuo blows air past his lips in a 'pfff' sound. "Get bent."

"But haven't your feet simply had enough with the floor?"

When Shizuo looks back at Izaya, Izaya's head is turned away, black mop of hair hiding any readable features. A breeze picks up again, wrapping Shizuo in its luxurious influence.

"Izaya."

"What?"

"Where are your wings?"

The breeze stops completely. Shizuo can't feel his fingers. He registers once again the faint music pulsing from downstairs and wonders if Kasuka has come to the reunion too. Most likely not.

"Sit down, Shizu-chan."

It's like Izaya's the father sitting his son down to explain that things between Mom and Dad aren't exactly working out. Shizuo doesn't sit down with Izaya, but rather, takes a small step back.

"I'm not getting anywhere near you."

"Either way is for the best."

It's a few minutes before Shizuo finally huffs and sits down, albeit several feet away from where Izaya is perched. He wants a cigarette, and badly, but somewhere along the way, the box has disappeared. He knows he never should have trusted these new suit pockets.

"You don't make any sense."

"Could say the same," Izaya sighs contentedly. His feet start kicking again, heels narrowly missing the side of the building each time he comes down, leg extending straight out but somewhat bent when it comes up.

It's then that Shizuo answers his own question. A glance at Izaya's back reveals that he does, indeed, still have wings; but they are black, blacker than the blackest night, vanishing into Izaya's familiar color scheme outfit.

"Jesus," Shizuo breathes.

"Not my name," Izaya responds with a shrug, "but I'll take it, I guess. Come what may."

"What the Hell did you do, flea?"


	9. Chapter 9

Izaya smirks at the evening air. Shizuo watches his face for a sign, any movement, any contour that might give away what's going on behind those eyes. He's as batshit-euphoric as he ever was, but the smile encroaching onto his lips does not seem to reach his eyes. Shizuo might rather have wanted to be graced with a strength of perception than a strength of physicality.

Orihara Izaya. Who knows now what he has become.

It paints a pretty picture, really, but a frightening one. Izaya's overall coloration has always been violent and dark; death and shadows and fear, never pertaining to the warmth of roses but instead of blood. In spite of that, those white wings, the ones he bore when Shizuo had seen him last, had added a negligible amount of majesty and purity, the one part of him that had been left untainted. Orihara Izaya's blood had turned black and bled into his feathers.

Shizuo was wrong before; the only color he hates more than red is black.

"Ah," Izaya says in a breathy sort of chuckle, the 'whoops, clumsy me' kind. "I guess it has been long, hasn't it?"

"What did you do," Shizuo repeats. It's less of a question and more of a command, but Izaya being Izaya, he can't give a straight answer.

"Shizu-chan doesn't know, does he…"

Shizuo can smell iron and fruit juice and concrete. It drifts up from the rooftop, from the very tile, from the streets and the party below. Shinra is probably wondering where he is now.

"Spit it out, Izaya, what did you do?"

"No one ever told you what black wings mean?"

"That you're an ass?"

Izaya's head careens back when he bursts out laughing so hard he might fall off the tower. It would be a danger if they were mere mortals, but they are angels, and the only one in danger here is Shizuo.

Shizuo can't help but notice the delicate slope of his neck, and the thought of crushing it only comes in close second.

"I did something, Shizu-chan." He lifts one foot to the edge of the concrete, drawing one knee in. "Something bad."

"What?"

Izaya giggles.  _Giggles._  "I can't tell Shizu-chan. Shizu-chan can't know what I did~"

Shizuo begins to recoil away as Izaya leans a little closer. "You're freakin' me out, flea."

"Can Shizu-chan guess?"

"Stop it."

"Just guess."

"Flea, you—"

A shriek of metal cuts through the air. There is a tear in Shizuo's coat sleeve. He puts it all together in a split second and shifts back to a safe distance before standing up and backing away from the roof's edge. Izaya's gleeful stare is predatory; his canines give him the air of something all the more demonic. In the same instant, Izaya is standing too, open knife resting gently in the palm of his hand.

"Sneaky little shit, I  _knew_ you had something up your sleeve."

Izaya laughs aloud, hand to stomach. "I really  _did_ , didn't I?" The sound echoes.

He slices again; Shizuo jumps out of the way, still feeling the air shifting from the attack. Izaya chuckles as he watches the blond dance.

"Shizu-chan's still useless, huh?" Another swing that catches on his shirt. "Still can't fly!" Yet another, dislodging a button from his blazer. "Can't do anything, no one wants him — Heiwajima Shizuo the powerless legend!"

"Shut up!" Shizuo's only threat is his words, for there is nothing here that he can use to fight back but his fists, and the last thing he wants is blood on his hands regardless of whose blood it is. The cold air cannot protect him now.

Izaya's laugh is deafening and merciless. "There is no limit to what I am capable of, Shizu-chan! So just give it up~!" Shizuo notices an object suddenly embedded at the wall beside his head, and that's when he sees that Izaya has thrown the knife this time. "Or better yet…" The blond finds his back pressed against that very wall. There's nowhere else to run. "Better yet, just die!"

Shizuo dashes for the door that leads to the stairwell as another knife hits the wall. Glancing down, it seems dizzying and overwhelming, but he summons the strength to start down the stairs, running one two three at a time, four even. When he looks back, Izaya has followed him every step of the way.

"Ask and you shall receive, Shizu-chan~!"

For once, Shizuo sees the irony that Izaya is chasing  _him_  rather than the other way around. But Shizuo's heart is dead set racing with fear — he has no doubt in his mind that Izaya has every intent to kill him this time. Shizuo looks back again, and suddenly the flea is gone. The stairwell is too quiet. Izaya is hiding.

He thinks there's nowhere else to go but down, and yet when he turns back he finds Izaya standing just a few steps below him with a grin.

"Shi~zu~chan~"

He grips the railing and flings his body over the side. There's no plan from there, and for a moment he's in complete free fall until his hands find the railing two levels below. Shizuo winces from momentum's impact of swinging forward to hit the side of the stairs, but the rising adrenaline helps him scramble over onto the stairs again.

"You're smarter than I thought you were, Shizu-chan!" His laughter bounces off the walls of the tower, and though it sounds distant, Shizuo knows that the raven is right on his heels. His only choice is to keep running, even as his lungs burn and his legs shake.

Shizuo reaches the main floor and puts the last of his ability into pushing the door open. The party is as if he's never left it. He quickly closes the entrance behind him and doubles over, breathing harder than he's ever breathed. A sheen of cold sweat has gathered on his forehead and dampened the roots of his hair.

"Ah, Shizuo!" The blond doesn't look up when he's addressed. "Shizuo, there you are! We've been looking everywhere for you!"

"Uh huh," he says, standing straight even when he wants nothing more than to collapse. His neck hurts when he nods his head.

"Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah." He tries to shake it off. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Having a good time?"

Not wanting to involve Shinra, Shizuo shrugs weakly. Maybe it's the adrenaline wearing off, but it's been a long time since he's felt this exhausted. He wavers a little, doing his best to keep upright.

"Good. Okay. Come with me."

Shizuo blindly follows in the hopes that maybe they're going to leave now. He can't stand another second knowing that at any moment the flea–

"So anyway, look who I ran into!"

…could be standing innocently in front of him.

Shizuo's heart drops into his stomach and churns until he becomes nauseous, and though the whole process takes a mere two seconds, it feels like an eternity, watching Izaya's smile morph each time he looks between the doctor and the blond.

"Hey, Shizu-chan! Long time no see! I know we had a bad run," he says the words like a subtle inside joke, "you know, back in high school, but no hard feelings, ne?"

_No hard feelings, my ass._

"Shizuo, are you okay?" Shinra turns to Izaya briefly. "He hasn't been feeling too well, I don't think he ever liked crowds."

"Must be it," Izaya says, voice muted to Shizuo's ears like he's underwater.

"Shinra, let's just go. I want to go."

Shinra sighs. "Alright, I understand. Another time, Izaya." He moves past him, beckoning for Shizuo to follow, but Shizuo can't seem to walk more than a few steps before he feels like he's about to vomit.

He barely registers the blade sliding into his body as if it's made of butter.

"Shizuo, are you- SHIZUO!"

The blond crumbles to his knees, unwilling to clutch the wound for fear of seeing the blood on his own hands. By the time Shinra has knelt down to him, the knife has already shot back up to its home inside Izaya's sleeve. Burnt amber eyes flutter in and out of lucidity, and the last thing he hears, whether it's real or in his head he can't tell, is the sound of Izaya's unforgiving and unabated laughter.


	10. Chapter 10

"God _dammit_ , Shinra."

Shinra immediately stops and retreats, ignoring his use of the Lord's Name in Vain for now. "I-I'm sorry, did that hurt?"

"Nuh uh." Shizuo shakes his head down at the doctor. "Nothing you did. I'm just thinking."

"I think it's more like you're brooding, Shizuo." Shinra continues applying isopropyl alcohol to the area around the fresh stitches with a cotton ball held by a pair of forceps. The wound is only a couple inches tall just above the navel, but it's deep too, deep enough to have caused internal bleeding and ultimately a rather rushed surgery to stop the hemorrhage.

Shizuo can be heard muttering to himself, words like "flea" and "bastard" and "kill" and "freak" popping up until the flurry of insults and threats contains no string of coherency and his fingers wrap around the edges of the medical table hard enough to bend his fingers into the metal.

"Shizuo, I've told you this time and time again since last night, but there's no way to prove it was Izaya."

The doctor picks up the roll of wide gauze and starts to wind it slowly and carefully around Shizuo's abdomen.

"Who else could it have been, ha?"

"Well Christ -" Shinra briefly pauses to cross his heart "- I didn't even notice the wound until Celty brought you to my place!"

Shizuo winces at a particularly hard tug that tightens the gauze around him. "Are you… Are you saying I did this to myself?"

"I never said that." Shinra clearly tries to distract the conversation by reaching for the bandages. Shizuo swipes them quickly and holds them high over his head; the gesture stretches the skin of his torso and the wound flares up, but he pays no mind.

"You implied it."

"I'm not going to say it's not possible—"

"Fuck, Shinra! As if I would do this to myself—"

"I've been waiting!"

Shizuo can see the doctor's lips quiver and his eyes lock up. He relaxes visibly, and the pain subsides.

"Waiting for…?"

"Give me back my equipment and I'll tell you."

The blond angel wordlessly hands him the bandages. Shinra purses his lips as he sets to work wrapping the elastic cloth over the gauze. Even from his slightly higher vantage, Shizuo can't see past his thick rimmed glasses and sweep of gentle brown hair. Shinra's fingers are careful but certain, holding a kind of firmness that sets Shizuo at ease, knowing that he's more or less in good hands. Shizuo knows he's taking the time to look for the right words.

"Waiting for what?"

"For… For your self-loathing to…" There's a shudder in his throat. "…manifest."

"'Manifest'? The hell are you talking about? You saying I'm depressed?"

"No–"

"Suicidal? Well?"

"Shizuo, I'm just concerned—"

"Just like everyone else, huh?" Shizuo sneers. "Well don't be. I'm fine."

"I can't disregard the possibility—"

"How many times do I have to tell you that it was Izaya?"

"How many times have you blamed Izaya for anything that happens to you?"

"Are you done yet?"

Shinra looks down at the unfinished bandage. He wraps the rest of the length around Shizuo's middle and, silently, attaches the clasps that hold the end of the roll to the layer underneath.

"Yeah…"

Shizuo hops off the table and Shinra doesn't protest. He knows his own limitations just as much as he knows his own strength, but he's never been one to say anything whatsoever about the pain he feels. He's at the threshold when Shinra makes his decision.

"S-Shizuo."

"Mm." Shizuo doesn't turn to him. His hand rests on the door frame for a bit of support.

"When… When you shower, just wash the area with soap and water; otherwise, keep it dry. Celty will give you extra gauze and bandages to take home, and see me if there's any swelling, redness, or anything else you think might be wrong around the injured area."

Shizuo tries to process all of it, but he's got the gist of the instructions. He nods slowly.

"Thanks. Hey…"

"Yes?"

His life seems to pass before his eyes in a few lingering moments. All his failures, all his errors, all the things he did wrong and everything he never deserved.

"Have you ever… removed someone's wings before?"

It's as if the very air in the room has transformed, sucked dry, leaving Shinra only with the temporary ability to gasp.

"No…" Shinra adjusts his glasses with restless fingers. "Even if y- …someone, requested it of me," he adds quickly, "I… I never would."

"Okay." Shizuo's hand falls from the door frame as he steps out. "Just… thought I'd ask."

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies—this fic has been discontinued.


End file.
